Three Years Hence
by Ebonshire
Summary: Just a short fic noting John's view of the Reichenbach fall, and the return of Sherlock to 221b.


It had been three years.

Not that time meant a whole lot these days. Days could fly by like minutes, or linger like a stubborn scab. Sure, he got by; steady job as a GP, a regular, reliable income. But the hours passed without meaning, without purpose. In the space of a few blurred minutes, his whole world had crashed around him.

A phone call.

A figure.

A step.

The man had fallen with such grace, his arms spread wide like he hoped to fly, his legs moving harmoniously with the air currents dragging him to the cold pavement slabs below. He'd not seen his friend hit the ground, but the dull thump of his weight could clearly be heard.

A youth on a bicycle had rammed him as he staggered forwards, and the blow of his head on the floor had knocked his senses. All he recalled was the crowd, running and panicking, and his own hand reaching out twards the body of his friend. The pale, lifeless face as streaked with blood, the delicate eyes bleached with the ice of death. No shine remained; no bright spark that betrayed the man underneath the carefully-constructed outer image of cold indifference.

He had reached for the dead man's limp wrist, and lain shaking fingers upon the soft veins, only to feel nothing. The unique spark of life which had danced inside had been vanquished; and only a broken husk remained. His mop of wild dark hair was sticky with dark blood, which pooled around his head like tar and soaked into his friend's knees as he groggily scrabbled to get closer, only to be pulled back by paramedics. His grip loosened, and he let the languid hand fall to the ground.

His mind went blank after that moment, and by the time he regained consciousness, the man had been taken away from him, and he was alone, like he'd never felt before.

He would sit alone in the evenings, in the flat he both adored and despised, in his armchair in front of the fireplace, gazing across at the empty seat opposite. It was sleek and modern; much suited to the person whom it belonged. Sometimes the man would sit there for hours on end, never speaking, never moving. You could almost hear the gears whirring inside that remarkable mind; almost see the images and numbers flicker below the azure, cat-like eyes. His face would twitch with every thought, and the long fingers would tap rhythmically at the armrests or drum on his jawline, never still.

More often than not, he would leap up without notice, grab his long overcoat and scarf and batter out of the door, calling some hurried nonsense over his shoulder. And more often than not, John would leap up and follow right after him.

But now, no contemplating figure occupied that chair, and the flat was silent and dead.

As John sat there, eyes closed and mind troubled, he faintly heard the sound of the front door to the house open. He was tired; tired of everything, sick of fruitlessly hoping every sound he heard was his lost friend. Not even the creaking of the aging staircase roused him from his lethargic brooding, and even at the slow creak of the flat door, he didn't move.

Slow, deliberate footsteps entered the room, neatly laced shoes pausing near the entrance. John's eyes were still closed. He'd had months of dreams...nightmares; jumping at every sound and having nothing but darkness and disappointment to greet him. He was not prepared to give in to another cruel figment, leading him deeper into despair. He remained resolutely still and calm, and would not open his eyes.

"...John."

The voice came loud, but soft. That deep, musically-monotonous voice that had haunted him for so long. John's fingernails dug into the armrests, and he screwed his eyes shut even tighter. He wouldn't allow this false ghost to torment him again.

The footsteps paced closer, and John felt the presence. The ghosts would come with nothing but whispers and air, but this...he could feel the stature of the man stood over him. There was something in the atmosphere, an aura, and the strange bitter-sweet smell he'd lost so long ago. He felt at ease. He took a deep, shuddering breath, let it out slowly, and opened his lined, bloodshot eyes.

Of course, he expected to see nothing. His mind had deceived him more than a few times, like this. But his tormented psyche could never reproduce so perfectly the man stood elegantly before him. The detailed waves of his hair, the rich texture of the dappled overcoat, the bold navy of the scarf – this could be no apparition.

Sherlock Holmes had returned.

The two men stared at each other. At first there was nothing, no reaction. John struggled to comprehend the impossible situation.

_Keep your eyes fixed on me...please, can you do this for me... _

John heard it in his head, like a voicemail recording. Again he remembered, and his solemn eyes brimmed. He'd not thought he could cry anymore, not now. He rose from his chair and violently embraced his best friend, his face buried in his shoulder, fingers clawing tightly at his back. The figure he held was blissfully solid; he could feel the slender frame underneath the heavy coat, and felt the cloth's rough texture on his cheek. He felt long arms encompass him in return, and the soft pressure of the man's chest rising and falling with breath against his gave him the final proof that his friend was, however possibly or impossibly, back from the dead.


End file.
